The Regency Season: Decadent Dukes. Кэрол Мортимер

something worse, and last night she had been fleeing from imprisonment for her crimes?

      She did not feel like a criminal. Had not felt any desire earlier, as she’d made her way through this grand house to the Duke’s study, to steal any of the valuables, the silver, or the paintings so in abundance in every room and hallway she passed by or through. Nor did she feel any inclination to cause anyone physical harm—except perhaps to crash the occasional vase over the Duke’s head, when he became so annoyingly cold and dismissive.

      Except there weren’t any vases in this room, Bella realised as she looked curiously about the study. Nor had she seen any flowers in the cavernous hallway to brighten up the entrance to the house.

      That was what she would do!

      When she asked Pelham for a blanket to sit on outside, she would also enquire about something with which to cut some of the flowers, growing so abundantly in the garden she could see outside the windows, and she’d ask for a basket to put them in.

      Just because she had no idea who she was, or what she was doing here, was no reason for her not to attempt in some small way to repay the Duke’s kindness in allowing her to remain in his home. And this beautiful house would look so much more welcoming with several vases of flowers placed—

      ‘What are you plotting now?’ Griffin’s laughter had faded as suddenly as it had appeared, and he now eyed Bella warily as he saw the light of determination that had appeared so suddenly in her eyes.

      She frowned as her attention snapped back to him. ‘Why do you treat me with so much suspicion?’ She gave a shake of her head. ‘I know that the circumstances of my being here are unusual, to say the least, but that is hardly my fault, or a reason for you to now accuse me of plotting anything.’

      Griffin heaved a weary sigh, very aware that he was projecting his wariness and suspicions onto Bella, emotions so familiar to him because of Felicity’s duplicity. Which was hardly fair or reasonable of him.

      He nodded abruptly. ‘I apologise. Perhaps I am just tired after my disturbed night’s sleep,’ he excused ruefully. ‘Please do go and enjoy reading your book out in the garden, and try to forget that I am such a bad-tempered bore.’

      Griffin was far from a bad-tempered bore to her, Bella acknowledged wistfully. No, the Duke of Rotherham was more of an enigma to her than a bad-tempered bore. As he surely would be to most people.

      So tall and immensely powerful of build, he occasionally demonstrated a gentleness to her that totally belied that physical impression of force and power. Only for him to then address or treat her with a curtness meant, she was sure, to once again place her at arm’s length.

      As if he was annoyed with himself, for having revealed even that amount of gentleness.

      As if he were in fear of it.

      Or of her?

      Bella gave a snort at the ridiculousness of that suggestion as she glanced at him, and saw he was already engrossed in the papers on his desk. He did not even seem to notice her going as she took her book and left the study to walk despondently out into the garden.

      No, the differences in their stature and social standing—whatever her own might be, though it surely could in no way match a duke’s illustrious position in society?—must surely ensure that Bella posed absolutely no threat to Griffin. In any way.

      In all probability, the Duke was merely annoyed with being forced to continue keeping the nuisance of her, and the mystery of her, here in his home.

      She had not asked to be here, or to foist the puzzle of who she was upon him.

      Nevertheless, that was exactly what had happened.

      But where else could she go, and how could she go, when she had no friends or money with which to do so?

      * * *

      Like a moth to a flame Griffin found himself getting restlessly back onto his feet and wandering over to the window within minutes of Bella leaving the library, the papers on his desk holding no interest for him whatsoever.

      At least, none that could compete with his curiosity in regard to the mystery that was Bella.

      She had already spread a blanket on the grass and was now sitting beneath the old oak tree he could see from the window, the book open in her hand, the darkness of her still-damp hair loose again about her shoulders, now drying in the dappled sunlight filtering through the lush branches above her.

      What was Griffin going to do with her, if his enquiries as to her identity should prove unsatisfactory?

      She could not remain here indefinitely; if it turned out that she came from a family in society, as he suspected she might, then her reputation would be blackened for ever if anyone should realise she had stayed in his home without the benefit of a chaperone or close relative.

      Inviting his only close relative to come to Stonehurst Park and act as that chaperone was totally unacceptable to Griffin; he and his maternal grandmother were far too much alike in temperament to ever be able to live under the same roof together, even for a brief period of time.

      Perhaps he should send word to Lord Aubrey Maystone in London? He worked at the Foreign Office, and was the man to whom Griffin reported directly in his ongoing work for the Crown.

      The puzzle of Bella was not a subject for the Foreign Office, of course. Nor was it cause for concern regarding the Crown. But Maystone had many contacts and the means of garnering information that were not available to Griffin. Most especially so here in the wilds of Lancashire.

      Except...

      Maystone had been put in the position of shooting one of the conspirators himself the previous month, and after that he’d become even fiercer in regard to the capture of the remaining conspirators. If Griffin were to tell the older man about Bella, he could not guarantee that Maystone would not instruct that Bella must be brought to London immediately for questioning, for fear she too was involved in that assassination plot in some way.

      He might never see Bella again—

      His gaze sharpened as he saw that while he had been lost so deep in thought, Bella had risen to her feet and left the shade of the oak tree to walk across the garden. She now stood in conversation with the gardener who had been working on one of the many flower beds.

      This was not the elderly Hughes, who had been head gardener here even in Griffin’s father’s time, but a much younger man Griffin did not recognise. A handsome, golden-haired young man, in his early twenties, who was obviously enjoying looking at Bella as that dark hair hung loosely about her shoulders, as much if not more than the conversation.

      Just as Bella appeared perfectly relaxed and smiling as the two of them chatted together.

      Griffin did not give himself time to think as he turned to stride forcefully out of his study to walk down the hallway, leaving the house by the side door usually only reserved for the servants, before crossing the perfectly manicured lawn towards the still-conversing couple.

      A handsome young man and beautiful woman so engrossed in each other they did not yet seem aware of his presence.

      Bella broke off her conversation and her eyes widened in alarm the moment she spied the tall and fiercely imposing Duke storming across the grass towards her, his face as dark as that thundercloud he carried around above his head.

      Her heart immediately started to pound in her chest, and the palms of her hands felt damp. What on earth could have happened to cause such a reaction in him?

      ‘Your Grace?’ She looked up at him uncertainly as he reached her side.

      ‘Who are you?’

      The glowering Duke ignored her, his countenance becoming even more frightening as he instead looked at the young gardener with cold and frosty eyes.

      ‘Sutton, Your Grace. Arthur Sutton.’ The young man touched a respectful hand to his forelock, his face becoming flushed under the older